


Meeting Halfway

by willowbough



Series: Dominic Again [1]
Category: Dominic (TV)
Genre: Coming of Age, Found Family, Future Fic, Gen, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7551658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbough/pseuds/willowbough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dominic tries to adjust to life without his parents. Beever tries to adjust to being a guardian. And the York Assizes are looming...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Despite my affection for the series, I can't deny that it feels incomplete to me, seeming to leave off halfway through a coming-of-age arc for the main character. Dominic loses his family, his home, most of his innocence, and very nearly his life--on more than one occasion. And going by the Kubler-Ross model, he appears to be stuck around the anger and bargaining stages of grief. (Also, given what he's been through, there's no way he doesn't have some form of PTSD!) While I imagine we're supposed to believe he'll be all right in the end, it's not as reassuring as actually getting to see him heal. And "I'm sorry about your parents, here's a gold watch" is not exactly what I'd call a satisfying resolution.
> 
> Dominic's not the only character whose fate is left up in the air. Harriet and Lucy have also lost their families and are facing a dilemma about how to handle the truth of their identities, which is still unresolved by series' end. And then there's Beever. Just as Dominic needs to grow up, Beever needs to _grow_ , period, beyond the rather rigid, narrow, occasionally self-righteous person he is at the beginning. He really is the Guardian from Hell for the first couple of episodes. The good news is that he seems to want to do better by the end, and he and Dominic are actually communicating. Still, there's plenty of room for improvement.
> 
> So, here is my take on the future, which will cover the next year or so, in which a boy becomes a man, a captain becomes a parent, and two young women from vastly different backgrounds become sisters. SPOILERS for the original series and its prequel, _Boy Dominic_.

Something was not right.

The instinct set in after dinner and grew gradually stronger as night fell, despite Beever’s best attempts to ignore it.

He always remembered how large the house was during this time of year, when it was just himself. And now it was himself _and_ the boy, rattling around like pebbles in a jar. Correction: himself, the boy, and Bessie Dearlove, which made things perhaps slightly better but still not wholly… comfortable. 

Which explained, his inner critic mocked, why he was sitting here in his quarters, hiding, instead of investigating the most likely source of that “not-right” feeling: the bereaved sixteen-year-old left to his guardianship.

Beever ground his teeth, but couldn’t wholly deny the truth of that criticism. He’d been closest by far to Charles Bulman, but he’d admired Emma and found their son to be a promising boy: bright, quick-witted, and willing to work hard. Dominic’s hostility—even hatred—towards him in the wake of the Bulmans’ murders had come as a shock and a very unpleasant surprise. Although Beever could admit now that his own maladroit handling of the situation had contributed to the unpleasantness. 

At least that was done with, and he and Dominic understood each other better these days. Though Beever wasn’t sure if the boy found his company agreeable or oppressive, especially now that the term was over and the other cadets had gone home to their families for the summer holidays. As Dominic never could again.

Beever’s conscience twinged. The fate of Bulman Hall remained a sensitive topic for him and the boy. In the aftermath of the murders, it had seemed the safest course to Beever to put the house up for sale and permanently remove his ward from the premises before the threat that had claimed his parents’ lives endangered his in turn. He’d been sure at the time that he’d made the only possible decision; now he wondered if he’d acted prematurely. As it was, Bulman Hall remained unsold; contrary to Mr. Travis’s prediction, no offer had been made upon the property so far.

Dominic, for his part, had not uttered a further word regarding the house, not since they’d first clashed over it, but Beever knew that he thought about it. Just as he thought about his parents, their deaths, and the upcoming assizes that would determine the fate of the smugglers’ gang that had killed them.

 _The Brotherhood took away his family… and I took away his home._ With the best of intentions, perhaps, but that didn’t lessen the hurt. Beever still wasn’t sure how to raise the subject without reopening the wound—and he valued the new amity developing between Dominic and himself too much to risk it just yet. 

But that didn’t mean just sitting here doing nothing, especially if his instincts were telling him otherwise. For the next five years, the boy was his responsibility, and responsibilities were best confronted head-on.

Pulling on a dressing-gown, Beever left his quarters and headed upstairs. Jenkins would make this round every night, but he too had gone—off for a month’s holiday, to visit his brother in Wales. 

Closed doors and silence behind them all. But he spied a flicker of light under the one he sought, though no sound issued from within. Frowning, he eased the door open, lest he disturb anyone’s slumber. 

But both hammocks, illuminated by a hanging lamp, sagged empty of their burdens—and the lone occupant of the room stood at the open window, his back to Beever. Moonlight haloed the fair head and shone on the white nightshirt, lending a deceptively angelic cast to the figure.

“Bul—Nick?” Beever amended just in time, keeping his voice low, but the boy still started like a hare, head turning to show wide grey eyes, almost black in the gloom, in a pale face. 

“Sir?” His ward’s voice was barely audible, and Beever felt a twinge of concern.

“Can’t you sleep, boy?” he asked as gently as he could, and saw Dominic lower his eyes and bite his lower lip.

“Can’t seem to manage it yet, sir. I thought… some fresh air might help.”

Beever came further into the room. “Was it a bad dream?”

A brief pause, followed by a nod. Even in the shadows, Beever could see the flush stealing into the boy’s cheeks. “This isn’t the first time, is it?’

“No, sir.” Dominic fell silent, staring down at the floor. “And I’d rather stay awake for the next five years than go back to it.”

Steady as she goes, Beever told himself. He ought to have expected this: between his parents’ murders and the attempts on his own life, Dominic had more fodder for nightmares than any boy his age should have. “Five years seems a bit excessive,” he said at last. “But there’s no need to return to your hammock just yet. Especially if sleep is eluding you—or proving unrestful.”

“Thank you, sir. Sorry if I’ve disturbed you. Goodnight.”

Beever stared at the boy’s lowered head. It seemed…wrong to walk away and leave him like this, just as it had seemed wrong to adhere to military formality in this situation ( _both of us in our night clothes, Good God!_ ) This was a task for a guardian, and while Beever was aware of his present shortcomings in the role, he’d vowed to improve. 

“You haven’t disturbed me, Nick. But I think you might—perhaps we both might—benefit from a warm drink.” 

Surprised grey eyes lifted to his. “But it’s summer, sir.”

“True, but Yorkshire nights can be cold, even now. If you wish to accompany me downstairs, I advise you to put on a dressing gown, lest you take a chill.”

Dominic regarded him consideringly, then ventured a nod. “I’ll come, sir. Thank you.”

***

They went downstairs, the boy padding almost soundlessly behind him. Light and quick in all his movements, the captain observed; not surprising, in retrospect, that he’d managed to run away from the Academy without detection. And something of a relief that, however unhappy or troubled Dominic might be now, he hadn’t run away again.

“No need to wake Miss Dearlove,” Beever said, low-voiced, as he eased open the door to the kitchen. “But we’ll need light to see by, nonetheless.”

“Yes, sir.”

They worked in silent unison, lighting candles and setting a lantern on the table. Beever stirred the fire to life and set the kettle on to boil. He might not have much in the way of kitchen skills, but they did extend as far as brewing a pot of tea. It occurred to him, belatedly, that Bessie would probably know best how to deal with Dominic’s nightmares, but he’d resolved to deal with the situation himself, and so he would.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked, once they were seated at the kitchen table.

A little more than a week since they’d managed to have at least some members of the Brotherhood apprehended. And not quite a week since Lord Stainton’s funeral, Beever’s memory supplied uncomfortably, but he shied away from that thought, for now. “Since your parents’ deaths, perhaps?” He kept his voice gentle.  


The boy stared at his hands, clasped before him on the table. “Yes. No. I mean, they stopped for a while, after I came back here. Possibly because I knew I was somewhere safe. But the last few nights… they started again.”

“Is it their murders you dream of?”

“I dream of everything, sir,” Dominic confessed in a low voice. “It all runs together. My parents—and the Brotherhood. The crypt, and the rocks…” He rubbed his wrist as though he could still feel the ropes binding him to the rings. “I struggle, but I can’t get free. I try to call for help, but there’s a gag in my mouth… and that’s when I wake up.” He exhaled, slowly and carefully. “It usually takes me a moment to remember where I am. But then I see Sparrow in the other hammock, or I hear Mr. Jenkins making his rounds. And after that, it’s not so hard to—calm down again.

“Tonight, though…” His hands twisted together, as unsettled as the rest of him. “Sir, did Lucy tell you everything—about what happened at the Eight Bells Inn?”

Beever regarded him more closely. “She told me you were tied to a rock and nearly drowned. And that she cut you loose, for which I am forever in her debt.”

“Did she mention that I wanted to kill Finn when I got out? And there he was, lying in a drunken stupor…” The boy drew a shaky breath. “All I needed was a knife, but Lucy stopped me. Because I owed her.

“But tonight…I didn’t stop. There was a knife on the table and I caught it up.” His hand twitched as though closing about a hilt. “It felt so _real_. I stuck it into him—over and over, and there was so much blood. On my hands, my arms, everywhere… and then I looked again.” Dominic’s throat worked in a convulsive swallow. “It was my parents, sir. I’d been stabbing _them_ , not Finn.”

 _Dear God_. Beever reached across the table to grip the boy’s shoulder, felt it tense beneath his hand. “It was a _dream_ , Nick. A terrible one, I grant you, and I understand your wanting to escape from it. But that’s not what truly happened.” 

He eased his grip but did not take away his hand, continuing to speak in a low, soothing voice. “You are in no way to blame for your parents’ deaths, or Finn’s. And I confess, I’m relieved that Lucy stopped you. Not for Finn’s sake,” he added, “but for yours. It is never an easy thing to take a life, even in battle. And while Barty Finn richly deserved to die, I would rather his death were not on _your_ conscience.”

Their eyes met, then the boy gave the barest nod. “Yes, sir.”

Beever released Dominic’s shoulder, leaned back a little in his chair. “I am… sorry that your dreams are so troubled, Nick. And I wish there were some effective cure—beyond never sleeping again, which I advise you not to attempt.”

“No, sir.”

Beever wondered if he’d just imagined the brief, upward quirk of the boy’s lips at his words. Then the kettle whistled, shrill and imperative, and he got up to tend to it, pouring the boiling water into a pot in which he’d already spooned the tea. After a moment’s thought, he returned to the cupboard, reaching for the bottle of brandy that he stored way in the back—where even Jenkins didn’t know about it—for “medicinal purposes.”

“It has been some time since I was beset by dreams bad enough to keep me awake,” he continued, setting the pot and the bottle down on the table and resuming his seat. “But I do remember things I would try—to ease my mind. Perhaps they might be of help to you as well.”

“ _You_ had nightmares, sir?” The surprise in Dominic’s voice was as disconcerting as it was mildly flattering. Did the boy believe him impervious to distresses of the mind?

“Yes. Many of us did, as midshipmen, especially after a battle.” Beever reflected soberly. “During an engagement, when action is required—there may be little time to fear. But afterward—one discovers the cost. And the things one sees when tending to the fallen, whether injured or dead… are not easily forgotten.”

He paused, poured the tea into mugs, added a dollop of brandy to each and pushed one toward Dominic. “And even without a battle, one might dream about storms, or being becalmed, or losing one’s bearings, or some other mishap that would cause a shipwreck.”

“Then—what did you do to stop the dreams, sir?”

Beever took a slow sip of tea as he remembered. “I found it helpful to turn my mind to things that could be recalled by rote. The multiplication tables, often, or some problem in navigational maths. Even long, dull passages of Scripture, such as who begat whom.” 

The boy’s lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I expect memorizing that many ‘begats’ would send anyone back to sleep, sir.”

“Just so. But mine was not the only way. I saw my shipmates do any number of things to compose themselves for slumber.” Beever paused, remembering. “One played the violin for relaxation. Some would indulge in a round of cards, but I’d prefer not to encourage gambling among my cadets. And then there was another who set himself to read all of Shakespeare’s work during the off-watches. Poems, plays, the whole lot.”

“Did he succeed?”

“I believe so. He mentioned that _Titus Andronicus_ wasn’t worth bothering with, however.”

The boy sipped his own tea, blinked at the taste, and set his mug aside. “ _The Tempest_ was my father’s favorite play,” he ventured, after a moment.

“Then, that might be a good place to start. I have several volumes of Shakespeare in my study. You may borrow them, if you wish.”

“Thank you, sir. I may very well take you up on that.”

They sat in oddly companionable silence for a while longer, drinking their tea. After a while, Beever noticed that the boy’s eyelids were growing heavier and that he was struggling not to yawn. The conversation, or perhaps the brandy, appeared to have done the trick.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” he inquired gently.

The boy looked up with a slightly guilty air, but managed a faint smile in response. “I’m willing to try, sir.”

“Upstairs with you, then.” Beever rose and collected the mugs. “ _I’ll_ do the washing up.”


	2. Too Much in the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do You Wanna Build a Scarecrow?" Or Beever and Dominic engage in some unexpected male bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs a few days after the preceding chapter. 
> 
> Beever's backstory is a big blank canvas, of which I intend to take full advantage. My personal head canon is that he's the younger son of a country gentleman, and that he has at least two siblings, both older, whom he hasn't seen in years. He went to sea at 12, but was actually on the books for a few years before that, and the naval life is all he's known since boyhood. Which may explain why he's tried to make his life ashore as much like his former existence as possible--even when it borders on the ridiculous.

“Nick? What are you about, boy?”

“Putting up a scarecrow, sir. To protect Bessie’s new seedlings.” Dominic paused, fretting his lower lip. “I’m sorry, sir—we didn’t think to ask you first.”

Beever smothered a sigh. He didn’t want to be the sort of guardian who only spoke to his ward to reprimand or criticize. That would be far too much like a return to their earliest days, which neither of them desired.

“I have no fault to find with the scheme,” he said mildly. Indeed, compared to Dominic’s recent misadventures, this enterprise sounded blessedly mundane. “What have you used?”

The boy relaxed. “Well, there’s a jacket of mine that I outgrew years ago, and one of Bessie’s old hats. It’s a bit bare-bones, but it should do in a pinch. If I could just get it to stay up,” he added, frowning at the post. “It’s fallen over three times already.”

Of that Beever was aware, having overheard Dominic say something distinctly rude about it the third time. But since he’d not been the intended audience, he was prepared to let it pass. He glanced at the boy, who was still brooding over his fallen creation. “You’ll probably need to sink the post deeper into the earth. May I see?”

The scarecrow was indeed as “bare bones” as Dominic had said. A face drawn in charcoal on some coarse sacking material, topped with a truly absurd woman’s hat.

Memories from his own youth of summer days in the country began to stir, and he regarded the scarecrow thoughtfully. “I believe I can let you have an old shirt and a pair of trousers for this. Perhaps even some old boots.”

The boy raised astonished eyes to his. “Sir?”

“Anything worth doing is worth doing well—and thoroughly, Nick. Let us investigate the attic.”

The attic yielded not only the promised garments, but a quantity of worn-through sheets that could be torn up and added to the straw padding out sleeves and trouser legs. Beever buttoned up the boy’s old jacket over the flattened-out shirt, his fingers deft as they remembered an old skill.

“The village near my father’s estate,” he began conversationally, “held a contest every year at the Midsummer Fair, for the ugliest or most comical scarecrow. I participated myself, when I was a boy.”

“Did you ever win, sir?”

“Once or twice, as I recall. I had plenty of assistance, of course, in building the winning entry.” He sat back on his heels, inspecting his handiwork. "Stand it up, and we'll see if the height is sufficient."

The height being established to both their satisfaction, they deepened the hole for the supporting post, drove the sharpened end into the soil, then pushed the dirt back around the hole to anchor it securely.

Head tilted to one side, Dominic studied the finished scarecrow: the severe military cut of its clothes, topped by the incongruously feminine bonnet festooned with ribbons and a spray of faded artificial flowers. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled—the bright, quick smile that Beever seldom saw these days. “Well, if it doesn’t _scare_ the crows, perhaps it will make them fall out of the trees laughing.”

Pushing aside a shock of fair hair, he blotted his brow on the back of his hand, then swayed slightly. 

Beever reached out to steady him. “You shouldn’t have come out without a hat,” he remonstrated gently, noting the boy’s flush. “As fair-complexioned as you are, you could become badly sunburnt in this weather.”

Dominic’s gaze flicked to Beever’s own bare head.

“And now, you are doubtless thinking I should practice what I preach.”

The boy’s lips twitched suspiciously. “Not at all, sir.”

“Hm. Well, then—I propose that we _both_ remember to wear hats the next time we undertake such a venture.” He glanced back at their scarecrow. “Shall we ask Miss Dearlove if our efforts meet with her approval?”

Bessie laughed heartily over the finished result, remarking that the hat looked better on the scarecrow than it ever had on her. “And now, Nick love, you’re halfway to looking like a boiled lobster,” she told him with characteristic forthrightness. “Come inside—I’ve biscuits and a pitcher of lemonade waiting. For both of you,” she added, after a moment’s pause. “And have a wash first, lad. I’m not serving anyone with hands like that!”

Dominic rolled his eyes but acquiesced without complaint, saying he’d be back once he’d changed.

“I should go and wash as well,” Beever observed, regarding his own hands critically; they were nearly as dirty as the boy’s.

“One moment, captain.” Bessie twisted her hands nervously in her apron, but her gaze was direct, even friendly. “Forgive me for talking out of turn, sir, but I’m in the habit o’ speaking as I find. It were good of you to help him wi’ the scarecrow.”

“It’s no hardship to spend time with the boy, Bessie.” As soon as the words were out, Beever recognized the truth of them. Indeed, he could think of several people whose company he found less congenial than Dominic’s, now that they were no longer at odds.

She smiled, a bit tentatively. “I’m that relieved to hear it, captain. Not saying Master Nick is perfect, because he’s not. But he’s a _good_ lad, sir, with nowt a speck of meanness in him. Losing the master and missus like that fair broke his heart, and I know he still grieves, for all he tries to hide it. So—thank you for showing him a bit o’ kindness today.”

Beever stared at her, unsure whether to be gratified—or indignant. Good God, did Miss Dearlove think him habitually _unkind_?

“I am—aware of the boy’s good qualities, Bessie,” he said at last. “ _And_ of the magnitude of his loss. You may rest assured that I would not willingly cause him further distress.”

He nodded to her, and made his way to his quarters, where he washed his hands and face, then decided to change into a clean shirt as well. All the while, Bessie’s words echoed in his mind—to be joined by others that were equally disconcerting. And more than a little uncomfortable.

Throughout his years in the Service, he had striven to be an officer and a gentleman at all times, taking pains that his conduct should be irreproachable in the eyes of his peers, his subordinates, and his superiors alike. Yet in the last month alone, he’d seen more criticism—even censure—in the eyes of others than in the whole of his naval career. Especially when it came to the boy. 

Mr. Travis had spoken mildly enough, though it seemed clear that he’d thought Beever rigid, even narrow, in his views. And Beever’s own sister had counseled patience and kindness in dealing with his ward—almost as though she believed he would need the reminder. Which, he acknowledged uneasily, perhaps he had. 

Did he really seem so… unapproachable to others? To the point where they considered kindness to be the exception rather than the rule with him? He knew he could be stern, even exacting, and he was prepared to acknowledge—at least, in private—that he’d been overly harsh at the outset of his and Dominic’s changed relationship. A captain needed to maintain order, discipline, and a certain measure of distance, after all. So did a headmaster. But a guardian…

He’d never imagined himself as a father. While he’d admired Charles’s ability to balance career and family, he’d known other captains who considered themselves married to the Service and the sea. Until the war’s end had put him ashore, Beever had counted himself among the latter. And even then, he’d transferred all his energies into founding and running his school. If the thought of marriage and family had crossed his mind, it could only have been fleetingly.

Until an unforeseen tragedy had left him standing in loco parentis to a sixteen-year-old boy.

It seemed wrong—presumptuous—to take Charles’s place in any way, and he knew that Dominic still missed his parents desperately. But perhaps he could at least act as an uncle—or the family friend he was supposed to be. 

_“He’s a good lad, sir.”_

Another reason to retain Miss Dearlove, beyond her excellent cooking, Beever mused as he buttoned his shirt. Even beyond the obvious affection between her and the boy. Who else living knew Dominic as well as she? And who was better equipped to help him navigate the shoals of raising the boy to full manhood?

He’d been a successful fighting captain and he considered himself a more than capable headmaster. But—he acknowledged with a humility he knew was rare in him—he had everything to learn about being a guardian. He should not allow his prowess in other areas to make him complacent in this one. Or worse, conceited—as though no improvement in his character were necessary or even possible.

He finished dressing and returned to the kitchen, just as Dominic presented himself to Bessie, turning his hands palm-up for her inspection. He too had changed his clothes, and Beever could see the comb marks in the slightly damp fair hair.

“Much better, love,” Bessie approved, handing him and Beever glasses of lemonade.

They all toasted the scarecrow, then Bessie set a plate of biscuits—fragrant with ginger and spices—on the table for them before bustling off to do the washing up.

Consuming a biscuit (most excellent), Beever studied the boy, noting that his complexion had resumed a more normal hue, “Given how warm it’s grown, you may wish to stay in for the rest of the day.”

The boy nodded acquiescence. “I thought I’d start up with _The Tempest_ again. It’s going faster, now that I’ve got used to the language.”

“Ah. And are you enjoying the play?”

“Mostly, sir. The story’s good, and there are some very fine speeches.”

“Have you a favorite character?” Beever inquired. “Prospero or Ferdinand, perhaps?”

“I haven’t decided yet. But,” Dominic added with an almost confessional air, “I must say, I feel more sympathy towards Ariel and even Caliban than Prospero.”

“Really?” Beever’s interest was piqued. “Why is that, Nick?”

“I should think Prospero would be a difficult master to serve, sir,” his ward replied, after a moment. “He’d always be reminding you of how beholden you were to him. After a dozen years of that, _I’d_ want to kick over the traces too.” 

Beever’s lips twitched into a smile. “You have a point, boy. I would find that rather trying myself.” He reached for another biscuit. “For my part, I have a soft spot for Trinculo and Stephano. They’re rogues, but entertaining ones—and any sailor who’s ever overindulged while ashore can recognize himself in them.”

Dominic smiled back, a little shyly. “I’ll take special note of them, sir.”

They discussed the play a while longer, while the pile of biscuits dwindled and the level of lemonade sank in their glasses. The boy’s eyelids were sinking as well, just a little, Beever observed. Remembering Dominic’s recent nightmares, he thought a nap might prove beneficial, but he would not embarrass the boy by suggesting it.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to. Looking in on his ward an hour later, Beever found him fast asleep in his hammock, _The Tempest_ lying open across his chest.


	3. Springes To Catch Woodcocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dominic becomes reacquainted with an old friend and finds some comfort. 
> 
> Beever becomes reacquainted with an old emotion and feels much less comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for both series. Especially the episode "Medicine Men" from _Boy Dominic_.

_…dealt with me like thieves of mercy, but they knew what they did…_

Nick paused, staring at the words on the page. _Thieves of mercy_. A contradiction if ever there was one—at least in his experience.

He shivered in the warm sunlight, trying to push the memories away and concentrate instead on what he’d been reading. Taking on _Hamlet_ after finishing _The Tempest_ and _Twelfth Night_ —according to Bessie, his mother had been partial to that play—had been his own idea, and he wasn’t sure whether it had been a good one or a bad one. 

At times, the story struck so close to home that the shock of it could take his breath away. Whereupon he found he needed to set the play aside for a while…but he always came back to it. Perhaps because so much of what Hamlet said—about loss, grief, and the need to make things right rang true for him. And perhaps because it was strangely comforting to find that someone almost twice Nick’s age could make more of a mess of avenging his murdered father than he had!

He did not hear the approaching footsteps, did not even realize he was no longer alone until a shadow fell across the page.

“Sir?” Nick glanced up, prepared to rise, but Beever shook his head.

“At ease, boy.” He studied Nick for a moment, then, much to the boy’s surprise, gestured at the grass beneath them. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“No, sir,” Nick rejoined quickly, and watched with some trepidation as his guardian lowered himself to the ground not too far distant.

“How goes your progress with _Hamlet_?” Beever inquired.

“Well enough, sir—though it moves more slowly than _The Tempest_ or _Twelfth Night_. Hamlet’s ship has just been captured by pirates. Sir,” Nick paused, “have you noticed that when Shakespeare’s characters go to sea, it never ends well?”

Beever appeared to consider this for a moment. “Good God, boy—I do believe you’re right! Though I suppose,” he added, “that sea travel three hundred years ago was an even more perilous enterprise than it is now. And talking of perilous enterprises…” He lapsed into frowning abstraction.

“Sir?” Nick ventured, after a moment.

“I’ve had a letter—from York,” Beever said, almost abruptly. “The trial is to be held around Michaelmas.”

Nick straightened up slowly where he sat, took a careful breath. “The Assizes.”

“Yes. Wardle and the others who were arrested as smugglers. They’re also to be charged with kidnapping and conspiracy.”

“Not my parents’ murder?”

A dissatisfied frown crossed Beever’s face. “That may depend on the attorneys who represent the Crown. For _your_ intended murder, they can find evidence—but there may be no proof to link Wardle and the rest to the other killings. We know that Barty Finn set his henchmen on to your parents, but with everyone involved now dead…” He sighed. “It may be that, knowing Finn’s guilt, all we can do is to leave him and his underlings to a higher court.”

Nick took another breath, trying to push back the renewed grief and frustration. True, Finn, Nat, and Scavenger had already paid with their lives for the murders… but it did not feel like justice. He wondered if anything ever would. “Then—is there nothing for me to do?”

“I believe the Crown may want your testimony against Wardle and any others you may have seen or heard.” Beever got to his feet. “Perhaps if we return to the house, I can show you the letter, and we can discuss what may be required.”

“Yes, sir.” Nick rose as well, tucking _Hamlet_ into his pocket and brushing grass from the seat of his trousers.

They headed back towards the house, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Rounding the corner just ahead of his guardian, Nick came to an abrupt halt, staring at the stocky, broad-shouldered man standing at the front door of the Academy, his fist raised to knock. A haunting sense of familiarity stole over him—could it be…?

Then, as though sensing Nick’s presence, the man turned around, and their eyes met across the distance, dark gazing into grey.

“Master William…” It came out as barely a whisper. Swallowing, Nick tried again. “Master William!”

He broke into a run, skidding to a halt just before his old friend… whose face showed the same grief that must have been etched on his own. Grief—and understanding.

Strong hands settled on his shoulders, strong arms pulled him into a tight embrace. “Nick! I came as soon as I could. Oh, lad—I’m that _sorry_ …” 

***

 _Who the devil_ …?

Frowning, Beever quickened his pace. A stranger to _him_ , but clearly not to the boy, who was clinging to the newcomer, his face practically buried in the man’s shoulder.

Nearing the pair, he paused, looking over their visitor with a critical eye. Broad-shouldered, broad-chested, and dark-bearded… Beever’s age, perhaps a few years older, but a good six inches or so shorter, though he appeared not at all intimidated by that fact.

The man’s dark eyes met his own steadily over the boy’s head. “You’d be Captain Beever. I’ve heard tell of you.”

A noticeable Yorkshire accent. No gentleman, obviously—nor an officer, though his clothes were respectable enough. “You have the advantage of _me_ , Mister—” Beever let the words trail off suggestively.

Dominic lifted his head, disengaged himself from the man’s embrace. His eyes, Beever noticed, were suspiciously damp. “Captain Beever, this is William Woodcock—an old friend of the family. Master William, my guardian, Captain Beever.” He glanced between the two men, then added, “Mama and I met Master William the year Father was presumed lost at sea. We owe him a debt we can never repay.”

“Nay, then, lad—no need to speak of debt!” Woodcock protested. “You and your mother,” sorrow flickered in his eyes, “repaid it long ago, in friendship. I’m that sorry I wasn’t here for you when it happened. I’ve been out of the country for much of the past month.”

Dominic swallowed, his eyes close to brimming over again. “Thank you—for coming now.”

Woodcock set an almost avuncular hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’d have come from t’ends o’ the earth, young Nick—if you needed me.”

“Why don’t we go inside and talk further?” Beever suggested, attempting to regain control of a situation that seemed to be slipping rapidly away from him. “Master Woodcock, perhaps you would care for some refreshment after your journey?”

Again that oddly assessing glance from the other man. “I would-an’-all, Captain,” Woodcock said, after a moment. “Thank you. My horse and gig are at the gate…”

“I’ll have them brought round to the stables.”

***

Once their guest’s conveyance had been seen to, Beever led the way into the house. Visitors’ parlor, he decided: that room seemed more appropriate than his own quarters would have been. This… Master Woodcock had not come on Academy business, after all, but to visit the boy.

He glanced back over his shoulder, observing the easy way the man’s hand rested on Dominic’s shoulder and the way the boy looked up at his visitor—not quite smiling but with a perceptible warmth in his eyes. The affection between the two was almost palpable, and Beever suppressed a twinge of annoyance that he _knew_ to be irrational.

Opening the door, he showed their guest inside and poured small glasses of sherry for them all, even the boy. Sherry wasn’t Beever’s favorite beverage by any means, but he’d been told that this was a decent vintage, and it seemed too early in the day for anything stronger.

Woodcock thanked him punctiliously, though Beever noticed that he didn’t seem overfond of sherry himself, and as for Dominic… the boy took a small sip, blinked, then put his glass aside and did not pick it up again, focusing on his friend instead.

“I was in Ireland last month,” Woodcock explained. “Owing to some—speculation, I found myself part owner of a racing stable. Thought I’d go over and have a look at my investment. Then, when I came back…” Sorrow crossed his face again as he turned to Dominic. “The news was all over Yorkshire. I didn’t know whether ‘t would be best to write or call on you, but a mutual friend convinced me o’ the latter, and told me where to reach you.”

“A mutual friend?” the boy echoed, puzzled.

Woodcock smiled at him. “A likely fellow your father called Young George.”

“George is working for _you_?”

“Aye, lad. I started my own coaching house last year, bought another gig _and_ a barouche to carry passengers of quality. Young George is one of my drivers. His sister married a Boston man,” Woodcock explained. “One of the tapsters at the Rose and Crown, so they sent him in my direction when he came to Boston looking for work.”

“Oh, I’m glad!” Dominic exclaimed. “I worried about him finding another position, after...”

 _Damn and blast_. Beever could almost _feel_ the faint chill setting in between the boy and himself again. His handling of the Bulman estate and its staff had been one of the first things over which he and Dominic had clashed…

“Well, he’s settled in now as nice you please,” Woodcock went on. “But he’d be happy to have news of you all the same.”

“And I of him. Thank you, Master William.”

“I gather Bessie’s still with you.”

Dominic’s face went as blank as a wiped slate. “She’s been given a month’s trial,” he said tonelessly. 

Beever set his teeth. Confound it all, he’d practically forgotten that condition— _and_ that he’d not yet told the boy of his decision to retain Miss Dearlove…

Woodcock glanced in Beever’s direction, but his own expression was unreadable. “Aye, well, no doubt she’ll give satisfaction—at least in the kitchen!”

Surprisingly, Dominic smiled. “She’ll never believe you said that of her, Master William!”

“I’ll deny it with my last breath, young Nick!” Woodcock retorted.

That earned him a low laugh—the first Beever could remember hearing from the boy since his parents’ murder. He supposed he should be grateful to Woodcock for lifting Dominic’s spirits; instead, he experienced another twinge of annoyance, sharper this time.

“Master Woodcock, how was it that you first came to be acquainted with Captain Bulman?” he inquired, trying to keep the irritation from his voice.

“I served under the captain at Trafalgar—and after, aboard the _Reliant_.”

“Ah. That would make you a former seaman.”

The other man returned him a level stare that was not in the least deferential. “Aye, that’s right.”

Dominic looked from one to the other. “The two of you never served _together_? I thought because you both knew my father…”

Beever shook his head. “Different times, boy. Your father and I were shipmates _before_ he received his first command.” And before Beever had attained his own present rank.

“Oh.” Dominic lowered his gaze as an uneasy, not wholly companionable silence descended. Then he looked up a few moments later. “Captain Beever, sir, may I show Master William about the Academy? We have… a lot to catch up on, after four years.”

“Very well,” Beever conceded, after a moment. 

“Thank you, sir.” No disguising the relief in Dominic’s eyes, or his voice, as he rose from his chair. “Master William?”

The coachman set aside his glass and rose as well. “Aye, lad, you can give me the Grand Tour o’ the place. Excuse us, Captain?” He nodded at Beever, who inclined his own head in response.

“We won’t be gone too long, sir,” Dominic promised as he led Woodcock to the door. “Perhaps an hour or so…”

The phrase “Dismissed, boy” rose automatically to Beever’s lips; he bit it back just in time. “I shall see you both later, then,” he agreed and made a show of reaching for a nearby book as they went out.

***

Outside, Nick took a breath, relieved to have escaped the tense atmosphere in the parlor. For some reason he couldn’t ascertain, Captain Beever and Master William seemed ill at ease—even hostile—in each other’s company. It might be best to separate them—for a while, at least.

Leading his old friend away from the house, he pointed out various areas of interest about the grounds. The spot where he and the other cadets gathered for the daily roll call. The stables where they kept the horses and donkey. The stretch of lawn on which they took their morning exercise. “Weather permitting, of course,” he qualified.

“Mm.” Master William rubbed his chin. “Any of your schoolmates about?”

Nick shook his head. “Not just now. They—they’ve all gone home for the summer.” To his relief, his voice neither cracked nor shook at the mention of home.

Master William’s gaze sharpened nonetheless. “How are you faring, lad—truly?”

Nick summoned a small smile, though he’d no idea of how convincing it looked. Grief for his parents was a ceaseless ache that was bearable only when he focused on the immediate present. “I—try to keep busy, Master William. It helps, a bit. Captain Beever gives me lessons in the morning, in the subjects I need to improve upon. But in the afternoons, my time is my own.”

Master William continued to eye him searchingly. “That guardian of yours… hard man, is he?”

“Well, no one would ever call him a ‘soft’ one,” Nick temporized, after a moment.

“Young George has nowt good to say of him. ‘A hard, proud, cold man used to having his way in all things.’”

Nick winced inwardly. But he could hardly blame Young George for such a harsh assessment, not after the way Beever had put the estate up for sale and dismissed all the Bulmans’ servants after the murders. Indeed, Beever’s high-handedness was one of the qualities Nick liked least about him. Nor could he deny that the captain was proud, even imperious: demanding complete obedience from his cadets and trying to exert the same absolute authority on land that he’d wielded at sea. That, too, tended to set Nick’s back up, despite his resolve to follow orders from now on.

But ‘cold’… would a cold man have sat up with Nick after a bad dream and encouraged him to speak of what was troubling him? Permitted him to borrow books to keep his mind occupied? Helped him build a scarecrow, then sat in the kitchen afterwards, eating Bessie’s biscuits and discussing _The Tempest_ with him? 

Perhaps kindness didn’t come as easily or naturally to Captain Beever as it did to Master William or Nick’s own father, but that didn’t mean he was incapable of it. And surely such instances where he _was_ kind were worth noting—and defending. 

Nick sighed, unaccustomed to the pull of conflicting loyalties. “Captain Beever was my father’s friend. I have to trust that Father knew what he was doing when he made him my guardian. I didn’t, at first, and it led to all sorts of trouble.” He grimaced at the memory. “We got off to a very bad start, but we’re both _trying_ to do better. And I have come to trust him now, with my safety.”

Master William grunted. “Well, if you ever have your fill of this place—and _him_ , just send word and I’ll come for you.”

Nick couldn’t help smiling at that staunch declaration; it was good to know that he still had friends, even at a distance. “From t’ ends o’ the earth, Master William?”

“Aye, lad. Even from there.”

They walked on a while longer, then Nick asked, “How is everything in Boston? Does Marston Lodge prosper?”

“It’s doing champion. And guests still come to take the waters. Mrs. Mowbray keeps the place running all right and tight, and everyone seems to find her respectable enough. O’ course, there’s plenty in Boston who remember you and your mother fondly. Which reminds me…” His voice trailed off.

“Yes?” Nick prompted.

Master William shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, not quite meeting Nick’s eyes. “Well, I wanted to run it by you first, seeing as how you’re the one who discovered it. But the mineral spring—thought we could call it ‘Emma’s Spring’ in honor of your mother, maybe put a plate or summat in the wall, wi’ her name engraved on it…”

“A memorial, you mean.”

“If you think it fitting.”

Nick swallowed hard. “That would… that would be—”

To his horror, the words choked to a halt in his throat, and he felt his hold on himself crumbling like wet sand while the world blurred before his stinging eyes. Then a strong arm was suddenly about him, drawing his head down onto a broad shoulder.

“There now, lad. There now. Have it all out, if you need to…”

***  
He pulled away as soon as he could control himself, fishing his handkerchief out of his pocket. “Sorry,” he managed, after wiping his face and blowing his nose. “I d-didn’t mean to soak your shirt.”

“Nay, then—‘twill all come out in the wash.” Master William’s hand was warm and steady on his shoulder. “And you could have gone on for longer still, and I’d not have stopped you.”

Nick drew a shuddering breath, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes for a moment. “I know, but… I can’t give way like that, Master William—not with the Assizes coming up. I _have_ to keep my composure, somehow.”

“The Assizes?” His friend peered at him sharply. “They’ve got the bastards, then?”

“Some of them. The ones directly responsible for my parents’ murders are already dead.” As succinctly as possible, Nick gave the older man an account of his quest to find the killers and its final outcome.

By the time he had finished, Master William’s amiable face had hardened. “Did for each other, by the sound of it,” he remarked with grim satisfaction. “That’s _some_ justice, at any rate!”

“Captain Beever said something similar. But I swore I’d see the murderers caught and punished. And now I feel a bit like…well, like I’ve let my parents down,” Nick confessed.

“You’ve done nowt of the kind, Nick,” Master William assured him. “Fate took a hand in all this. Might not seem as satisfying as watching them swing, but I’ve seen a hanging and you haven’t.” His tone gentled. “It’s not a sight I’d wish on anyone, least of all a lad who’s seen more than his share of death already. And who could have died himself half a dozen times.” He gave Nick’s shoulder a bracing shake. “You must have more lives than a cat—or t’ devil’s own luck!”

Amazingly, Nick managed to summon a faint smile. “A little of both, perhaps.” And a guardian angel in Lucy, he thought. “But I’m done with taking foolish chances. Captain Beever and I will likely be called to testify when what’s left of the Brotherhood comes to trial. And I’ve got to speak up for my parents—I won’t let them be forgotten or dismissed, as though their lives meant nothing.”

“You do that, lad.” Master William gripped Nick’s shoulders, holding the boy’s gaze with his. “Stand for your own—for the captain and the missus. You were their hope and their pride, and I know you’ll do right by them.”

More tears burned in Nick’s eyes at his words, but he forced them back and nodded tightly. “I mean to, Master William.”

***  
They’d been gone for an hour—more, Beever discovered, on consulting the mantel clock. And the irritability he’d attempted to suppress for Dominic’s sake bubbled up again.

Separating him and Master Woodcock had been the boy’s gambit. Young and impulsive he might be, but he was also perceptive, as well as fairly sensitive to nuances.

Grimacing, Beever pushed his book aside, abandoning even the pretense of reading. No use pretending that Woodcock’s visit hadn’t somehow disturbed the delicate balance between Dominic and himself. As far as they’d come since those first disastrous days as guardian and ward, they had just as far to go before they shared anything like the warmth and deep affection that apparently existed between Dominic and “Master William,” even after four years’ separation. 

The son of a gentleman—of a _captain_ —embracing a common seaman-turned-coachman like a long-lost uncle. Granted, the boy was warm-hearted by nature and he clearly felt some sense of indebtedness towards Woodcock, but their connection wasn’t exactly… suitable, nor was it one that Beever was personally eager to see continue. 

No need to forbid contact between them outright, he decided. That would certainly not go over well. And to be fair, Master Woodcock had come a considerable distance to visit the boy. When they returned, Beever would invite the man to take dinner with them and conduct himself with perfect civility towards their guest.

But, afterwards, if he could subtly discourage this association—perhaps impress upon Dominic the importance of choosing more friends of a similar class and background as himself… then, it might wither away of its own accord.

He heard the front door open and close, followed by the sound of footsteps and voices, the deep rumble of Woodcock’s and the boy’s lighter one. A moment later, the parlor door opened and they entered side by side, Woodcock’s arm slung familiarly over Dominic’s shoulders. 

Suppressing his irritation at the sight, Beever inquired, “So, Master Woodcock, does our Academy meet with your approval?”

“It seems a proper school, Captain. Shipshape and Bristol fashion, or so the lad here tells me.” Woodcock gave Dominic’s shoulders a friendly shake.

“I showed Master William the place from stem to stern, sir,” the boy reported.

His voice sounded oddly husky, and Beever glanced at him sharply, noting the reddened eyes and slightly swollen lids—evidence of recent tears. A wave of protectiveness surged through him, startling in its intensity.

He’d never dealt well with tears, and at the time of the murders, he’d been secretly—perhaps even cravenly—relieved that the boy had never wept in front of him. Now, however, seeing the way Dominic leaned into Woodcock’s encircling arm, he felt… excluded. Surely it was _his_ place, _his_ duty, to offer comfort should the boy require it.

Pushing back that wholly irrational sentiment, he rose to his feet. “I commend your thoroughness, boy. Master Woodcock,” he addressed the coachman, “seeing that you have traveled some distance today, I hope you will take dinner with us this evening.”

Dominic turned hopeful eyes towards his friend. “Would you, Master William?”

Woodcock glanced from him to Beever, then nodded decisively. “I’d be glad to. Thank’ee, Captain.”

Beever turned to his ward. “You may go and tell Miss Dearlove to set another place.”

Dominic’s face brightened. “Yes, sir!”

Woodcock watched the boy fondly as he left the room. “The lad’s grown beyond measure, these last four years,” he remarked, after the door had closed.

“He’s shaping well, for the most part.” Beever kept his tone neutral.

“It’s good to see him. I just wish ‘t were under better circumstances.” Woodcock sighed. “Happen he might find some comfort, knowing there’s folk who care about him, even from far away.”

It was on the tip of Beever’s tongue to observe—perhaps a bit caustically—that there were folk who cared about the boy right _here_ too, but he restrained himself.

“It’s beyond cruel that he should have to mourn his father _again_. And now his mother… easy to tell he’s grieving—and badly shaken.” Woodcock’s face darkened. “It’ll be a long road back to who he was before those bas—those villains murdered his parents.”

“He may never be the same, Master Woodcock,” Beever pointed out.

“Aye, that’s twice he’s been knocked down. And it’s always harder getting up the second time. But from what I’ve seen, he’s still the lad I remember. Pluck enough for anything and loyal to the bone.” Woodcock paused, subjecting Beever to that shrewd, disconcertingly assessing look once more. “‘Twould be no kindness,” he said at last, “to make him think he had to choose.”

Beever just managed not to react. How the devil had Woodcock guessed his intent so quickly? And was that _really_ what he was doing—forcing Dominic to choose? 

An unexpected flash of shame at the thought was succeeded by a need to defend himself. Straightening to his full height, he regarded his visitor through narrowed eyes. “I have no wish to distress the boy, Master Woodcock. Pray do not take me for a fool.”

“Nay, then, Captain, I wouldn’t dream of it.” The coachman’s voice was as bland as his expression. 

Their gazes locked, and Beever exhaled slowly. If he was nettled at having his nebulous, slightly ungenerous plan run aground, he kept it to himself. And _from_ himself, at least for the moment. 

“It would appear,” he resumed, finding conciliatory words even though his feelings were far from conciliatory, “that we share a concern for Cadet Bulman's welfare.”

“ _And_ happiness,” Woodcock added, his eyes still steady on Beever.

“And happiness,” Beever agreed, the faintest note of testiness creeping into his voice. Damn it all, did everyone really think he intended the boy to be _un_ happy? Before he could embarrass himself by saying so, a more commendable notion occurred to him.

“If you would care to leave your direction, Master Woodcock, I'm sure Nick would enjoy writing to you in future.” He used the boy’s first name deliberately.

Woodcock relaxed, his stance becoming a touch less combative; whether because of the name or the offer, Beever could not be sure. “Now that's very gracious of you, Captain. I'm sure young Nick will thank you too.”

No doubt he would, Beever reflected a touch dourly. But loth as he was to admit it, Woodcock had a point. In his haste to sever what he saw as an undesirable connection, he had neglected to consider just how it would look—and more importantly, _feel_ —to the boy, who had already lost so much. Whatever reservations Beever might have about Woodcock—or Woodcock about _him_ , for that matter—it wouldn’t be fair to put Dominic in the middle. Fair… or kind, he conceded with an inner sigh. “I have—always had the boy’s best interests at heart, Master Woodcock.”

Surprisingly, Woodcock almost smiled. “I’ve no doubt that’s true, Captain. Or you’d not have offered t’ auld shrew a place here!” His expression softened further. “But she were devoted to the missus, and I reckon she and the lad can’t do without each other.”

“That has been my conclusion as well,” Beever replied, unbending a little in his turn.

The parlor door opened, and Dominic entered, smiling. The bright, unguarded smile he gave to those of whom he was fondest, Beever noticed.

“Master William, Bessie says, since she’s going to the trouble o’ feeding you, t’ least you can do after four years is come by and pay your respects,” the boy reported. “‘Less you’re too grand to set foot in a kitchen anymore.”

He spoke in deft mimicry of the housekeeper’s Yorkshire brogue, and Woodcock’s lips twitched in response. “ _She’s_ not changed! Right, lad—I’ll go and do as she says, just so I don’t find poison in my stew!”

“Not stew, Master William—it’s to be a roast chicken. With peas and new potatoes. I dug the potatoes up myself this morning,” Dominic added. “ _And_ shelled the peas for her, though she claimed I was eating almost as many I shelled.”

“They taste best fresh from the pod,” Beever surprised himself by saying and saw his ward’s eyes widen in astonishment. _Yes, I was once a boy too, Nick_.

“They do, sir,” Dominic agreed, after a moment. “But there’s still _plenty_ left for dinner, whatever Bessie says.”

Woodcock glanced from one to the other thoughtfully, but made no comment. “Well, I’d best be along before she changes her mind about the poison. See you at dinner, lad. Captain.”

“Am I correct in assuming that there’s no love lost between Miss Dearlove and Master Woodcock?” Beever inquired once the door had closed behind the latter.

“Oh, don’t mind them, sir. Bessie and Master William used to go at it regularly, much the way she and Mr. Jenkins do now. There was never any real harm in it—in fact, I think they might even have enjoyed it,” Dominic added reflectively.

“Nevertheless, I think it would be advisable to steer clear of the kitchen for now, discretion being the better part of valor, after all.”

The boy’s brow creased. “Sir?”

“ _Henry the Fourth, Part One_. You may wish to read it after you’ve finished _Hamlet_.”

“Yes, sir.” Dominic paused, then ventured, “Captain Beever? I want to thank you—for inviting Master William to dinner.”

“It seemed the… proper thing to do, under the circumstances,” Beever returned austerely, though he experienced a touch of gratification all the same.

“Oh, it is! You mightn’t know the whole story, but Mama and I would have fared very badly that year Father was missing, if it hadn’t been for Master William.” Candid grey eyes met his own squarely. “He’d be the first to agree that he’s rough in his ways, sir, but I know of no man living with a kinder heart.”

“That is—commendation indeed.” And something Beever knew that Dominic was unlikely ever to say of _him_. The knowledge stung, despite his understanding that the boy had not said what he did from a wish to wound. He was too honest for that, and as Bessie had remarked, there was “nowt a speck of meanness in him.” 

Someday, Beever thought, he would ask Dominic to tell him about that year, but at the moment—call it small or petty of him—he was not ready to hear a narrative in which William Woodcock figured so prominently.

***

Whatever her sentiments towards Woodcock, Bessie outdid herself as far as the meal went: the chicken was roasted to a golden-brown turn, but moist and succulent within, accompanied by buttery potatoes and tender peas. 

On impulse, Beever asked the cook to join them instead of eating alone in the kitchen, and after a startled moment and an exchange of glances with the boy, she agreed. So they were four at table, and the conversation, once it began, was lively enough—given the prior acquaintance between three out of the four.

It was seldom that Beever felt himself to be the outsider, least of all in his own home. Granted, Dominic made several attempts to include him in the conversation, but the wealth of shared memories between the boy, Woodcock, and Bessie left little room for any other topic. Resigned to the role of listener, Beever consumed his dinner in silence, letting the others’ voices eddy and swirl around him.

And all the while, he studied his ward: the color in his cheeks, the light in his eyes, the warmth and brightness of his smile. Indeed, the boy seemed to have set his sorrows aside to focus on the present—and the obvious pleasure he found in Woodcock’s company. 

Beever toyed moodily with his chicken. In light of Woodcock’s earlier words, he had little choice now but to examine his true motives—shorn of all excuses and self-justifications—for wishing to separate Dominic from the coachman. The process yielded little satisfaction… and considerable chagrin.

It had been years since he’d experienced jealousy. He’d forgotten how much it could smart. And how humiliating it was even to feel it. Surely such an unworthy emotion was beneath him. Or _should_ be.

He glanced at Dominic, listening raptly as Woodcock held forth about some place called Marston Lodge and an eccentric guest who’d recently stayed there, accompanied by her daughters and her dogs—all of which she’d insisted on taking the waters with her.

“Aye—misery loves company. That’s what _I_ always say,” Bessie remarked.

“Oh, come now, woman,” Woodcock protested. “Boston waters cured your rheumatics all right and tight!” 

“Just like Dr. Purley said they would,” Dominic added.

Bessie snorted. “Sometimes there’s nowt to choose between the cure and the disease! I’ll not forget the taste o' that stuff in a hurry—nor the smell!”

Woodcock and the boy exchanged grins, as though at a private joke. And seeing it, Beever came to a decision. He might not be able to help feeling jealous. But by God, he could keep jealousy from _ruling_ him. He would not be so petty as to cut off contact between Dominic and Woodcock… just because the boy shared a stronger bond with a coachman than with his guardian.

Which, Beever admitted with unflinching honesty, was what lay at the heart of this most unwelcome emotion. Oh, he had Dominic’s obedience, even his trust—and since his misadventures involving the Brotherhood, the boy had been nothing if not dutiful. A month ago, Beever would have considered that sufficient.

But of late, he’d wondered if—in time—there might come to be something warmer, more… _natural_ in their dealings with each other. He’d even found himself hoping as much. Obedience and respect could be commanded, but affection had to be given freely or it was meaningless. Developing a better rapport with his orphaned ward would require time and patience, but Beever had believed that the results would be worth the effort.

Which was why it had been so galling to see Woodcock welcomed, literally, with open arms. And to be forced to acknowledge and bear witness to a closeness that did not yet exist between Dominic and himself.

A closeness that he had nearly forfeited any chance of attaining, Beever realized with a sudden flash of clarity. Because his aborted plan would have had repercussions that he had not fully considered when first conceiving it. He made himself consider them now, especially with regard to Woodcock’s intimations and his own knowledge of the boy. 

_Loyal to the bone_ … that much was certainly true. And if he’d tried to come between Dominic and someone the boy considered a friend, two things were likely to have occurred. Either Dominic would have rebelled openly, leading to a resumption of the tensions that had plagued their earlier dealings… or he would have gone behind Beever’s back to maintain contact with Woodcock. 

And that would almost have been worse. After the murders, Dominic had defied and disobeyed Beever, but he had never _lied_ to him. The last thing Beever wanted was to make the boy believe that he needed to do so now. 

More than a little shaken, Beever glanced at Dominic, who was still smiling over Woodcock’s latest story. Unpalatable as it was to admit, the coachman had prevented Beever from making a serious tactical error, one that could have negated all the tentative gains he’d made with his ward over the last fortnight.

Someday, perhaps, he might even thank him for it. Someday, far off in the distant future.

Picking up his fork, he made himself resume his meal.

***

Woodcock took his leave about an hour or so after dinner. He’d engaged a room for the night at the village inn and would be returning to Boston the next morning, he informed an anxious Dominic.

Beever watched resignedly as the two embraced, the boy almost swallowed up by the coachman’s massive arms. Then Woodcock pulled away, flicked the tip of Dominic’s nose affectionately. “Be a good lad, young Nick, and write to me.”

The boy smiled up at him. “As long as you write back, Master William.”

“Aye, that I will. And Young George may want to add a word or two of his own.”

“I’d be glad to hear from him as well. And so would Bessie.”

“I’ll pass that along, then.” Woodcock turned to Beever. “Thank ‘ee for your hospitality, Captain.”

“Thank you for coming to see the boy,” Beever replied, equally punctilious. “Your visit has clearly meant a great deal to him,” he added, setting a hand lightly but pointedly on Dominic’s shoulder.

Woodcock returned him a level look. “Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away.”

 _Neither wild horses nor disapproving guardians_. Beever could read between the lines well enough, but he’d resolved to be generous. “A commendable sentiment, sir.”

“It was so good to see you again, Master William,” Dominic said, his earnest gaze fixed upon the coachman. “Thank you for coming—and for remembering.”

Woodcock’s expression softened. “It was good to see you too, lad. Take care. And if you should ever need me for aught, just send word.”

“I will,” the boy promised.

Beever swallowed an instinctive protest, reminding himself that this was between Dominic and Woodcock. And if his ward needed the reassurance of knowing he had friends outside, he would not interfere with that.

He and Dominic watched from the doorstep as Woodcock climbed into the gig and drove off, raising his hand in a parting wave.

Beever kept his own hand on the boy’s shoulder as they reentered the house.

“Could Master William visit again, sir?” Dominic ventured as Beever closed the door behind them. “Perhaps after the autumn term?”

Beever suppressed a sigh. “We’ll see, Nick. I daresay it could be arranged.”

Wisely, the boy did not press further. “Thank you, sir—for receiving him today. I know his visit was unexpected, but I think… Master William may have needed to see me as much I needed to see him.” He paused, fretting his lower lip, then added in a rush, “I think he loved my mother, sir!”

Beever stared at him: of all the things the boy might have said, he’d never imagined he’d come out with this. Granted, Emma Bulman had been a beautiful woman, who’d passed on her fine-boned good looks to her son, and Beever didn’t doubt she’d had many admirers, but this revelation was startling, nonetheless. “Are you sure, boy?”

“Well, at the very least, he was fond of her. I see things more clearly now than when I was twelve. I wouldn’t have _wanted_ to see them then. I couldn’t have borne to have anyone take my father’s place. Not that Master William ever tried,” Dominic added hastily. “And if he _did_ have hopes, he put them aside the moment he knew Father was alive. He never came between my parents—he respected my father too much for that.”

He paused, swallowed, then continued a little tremulously, “Mama wrote to him now and then, after we left Boston. She never forgot his friendship or what he did for us. He wants to rename the mineral spring at Marston Lodge after her—as a memorial.”

“Clearly he held your mother in high esteem,” Beever remarked, after a moment. “And both of you in—great affection.”

Dominic’s breath caught on something that was not quite a sob, but came close enough to remind Beever that the boy had had a very emotional day. He felt again that fierce urge to protect, mingled with something disconcertingly like… tenderness. On impulse, he draped his arm across his ward’s shoulders—as he’d seen Woodcock do.

Dominic surprised him by leaning a little into the almost-embrace, seeking comfort and not questioning the source. Strangely moved by the acceptance, Beever kept his arm where it was. He and the boy had never stood this close before, and while unfamiliar, the proximity was not unpleasant.

“The letter!” Dominic exclaimed suddenly, straightening up.

“Letter?” Beever echoed, his own mind a blank.

“The one from York. About the Assizes,” the boy explained. “I’m sorry, sir—I completely forgot.”

“Ah.” So had Beever, for that matter. “Never mind, Nick.” He tightened his arm, just a little. “It will keep until tomorrow…”

****

The journey back to Boston was uneventful, even pleasant. William had always enjoyed a leisurely drive on a fine summer day, though arriving safe home was even better.

Slightly to his surprise, he spotted his newest driver waiting for him outside the livery stable. Alighting from the gig, he greeted Young George, who wasted little time in asking after Master Dominic and his new situation.

“Better than we feared,” William assured him. “Oh, the captain’s a hard man, I’ll grant you. But maybe not so hard as he wants people to think.”

Young George frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“He has a care for the boy. Too proud to say so, but I could see it.” William’s grin flashed briefly. “Doesn’t like it above half that Nick’s friends with a rough fellow like me, but he’ll not come between us. He knows it would distress the lad to be made to choose, and he doesn’t want that.”

Young George shook his head. “Never thought he gave a tinker’s damn about Master Dominic’s feelings. He didn’t before.”

“Aye, well, any man can change, Young George, if he’s a mind to. And for what it’s worth, I think he’ll do his best to keep the lad safe. Come wi’ me to the Rose and Crown and I’ll tell you the rest over a pint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this was a long installment--mainly because I was connecting Dominic's past and present. Linking his adventures at twelve and sixteen was made more challenging by rather sketchy continuity between _Boy Dominic_ and _Dominic_ , as well as the tonal shift between the two series (like going from Charles Dickens to Robert Louis Stevenson). On the other hand, this was a chapter I wanted very much to write as it brings back a great character who plays such a big part in the first series: the seaman-turned-coachman William Woodcock (the scene-stealing Brian Blessed), who offers Emma and Dominic the chance to make an honest living when they're cast penniless into the world after Charles is presumed lost at sea. In my opinion, there's no way William would not come to visit the boy of whom he became so fond, after hearing of the Bulman parents' deaths. Plus, the dramatic opportunities presented by a meeting between Dominic's rival surrogate father-figures are too good to pass up.( I figured that their locking horns was inevitable.)


	4. Against a Sea of Troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories haunt Dominic during a short holiday. Beever attempts to rise to the challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs about a week after William Woodcock's visit. Spoilers for both series, as well as more backstory for both characters.

The body lay on its back, limbs sprawling and sightless eyes glaring up at the sky. Unlovely in death as he’d been in life, his greasy grey hair sticking up in matted tufts, his coarse features now set in an eternal scowl.

Gazing upon his dead enemy, his parents’ killer and his own would-be murderer, Nick wondered why he felt neither shock nor satisfaction. Was it because he’d hated Finn so much that ordinary emotions could not encompass his loathing? Or was it that, after seeing the two people he loved most laid out for burial because of this man’s greed, he’d become numb, even inured, to the sight of death? All he could summon was the fervent wish that Barty Finn’s last moments on earth had been as full of pain and fear as his parents’ had been.

Words bitter as brine rose to his lips. “What’s one smuggler more or less, Finn?” 

No answer, but then he hadn’t expected one. What was that they said, about dead men telling no tales?

He turned to make his way back up the strand, gleaming wet and sleek as glass by the light of the moon… and cried out as something closed about his ankles. Looking down, he saw to his horror that Finn, his face still frozen in that rictus scowl, had rolled over and was holding him fast in a dead man’s grip.

Frantically, Nick tried to prise those icy fingers loose. “Let go, you bastard! You’re not taking me with you!”

At his back the sea boomed ominously, and he glanced up to see a huge wave building, cresting, poised to crash down upon them both…

Nick jerked awake with a gasp… then lay sweating and shaking in the bed as awareness returned to him.

A bed and not a hammock. Hornsea—the seaside town to which he and Beever had traveled for a short holiday. A brief excursion, his guardian had proposed, before the autumn term commenced and instruction resumed.

Pushing the damp hair from his forehead, Nick wished that he’d suggested the Sahara Desert instead. 

He threw back the blankets and stumbled towards the open window, leaning on the sill and gulping in breaths of cool night air as if they were water.

Water. The innkeeper’s wife had told them—almost proudly—that they were but a short walk from the beach. Beever had been pleased by the revelation, and Nick had tried to appear so too, though he wasn’t sure how well he’d succeeded. 

His father had loved the sea. So had he… before. 

Memories buffeted him, just as the sea had in the cave below the Eight Bells. Rubbing his wrists raw as he tried to sever his bonds. Struggling to stay upright, to keep his head above the reach of the incoming tide. And hardest of all, trying not to break as wave after wave crashed into him—ceaseless, cold, and indifferent.

But in the end he _had_ broken. Abandoned his vow to say nothing and pleaded for his life with a man who had no mercy to give, who had taken pleasure in his helplessness and taunted him with his parents’ murder and his own impending death.

Nick’s hands clenched about the sill. _He_ was alive, and Finn was dead. There must surely be some comfort in that, though it felt rather sparse at the moment.

He breathed in and out, slowly, trying to will himself back to calm. Thankfully, Beever had engaged separate rooms for their stay here. His guardian had been surprisingly kind about his last nightmare, but Nick wasn’t sure how pleased he’d be about having to minister to him again, especially at this hour.

Nor should he, Nick told himself. The dreams were his burden to bear; he should be the one to find a solution to them. If he could.

_O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams…_

****

“Nick?” Beever rapped on the door again. “Are you awake, boy?”

No answer. Frowning, Beever tried the door—which swung open to reveal an empty room. Concern sharpened into alarm, and he entered at once, glancing about for some clue as to his ward’s whereabouts. 

To his relief, Dominic’s things were still there. And there was no rope of sheets hanging out the window to indicate a surreptitious departure. Some of Beever’s alarm subsided, though concern remained. 

No doubt there was a perfectly ordinary explanation, he reasoned as he let himself out of the room and closed the door behind him. Perhaps the boy had gone to the privy. Or down to an early breakfast—he’d eaten comparatively little at dinner last night, replying with a polite negative when Beever had asked if he were unwell.

Understandable if the boy was hungry now. Descending the stairs, Beever could smell new-baked bread, accompanied by the equally appealing aromas of coffee brewing and bacon frying. As he entered the dining room, he saw a small group of guests tucking into their breakfast, but Dominic was not among them. 

“Good morning, Captain,” the innkeeper’s wife greeted him as he came further into the room. “Will you be wanting your breakfast now?”

“By and by, ma’am, thank you. I was wondering if you’d seen my ward?”

“Oh, the young lad came down about a half-hour ago. Said to tell you he was going for a walk on the shore.”

“Ah.” Beever felt his anxieties ebb somewhat. At least Dominic had had the sense to tell someone where he was going. And while some trepidation lingered, he trusted that the boy—as a naval officer’s son—was sufficiently knowledgeable about tides to avoid mishaps on the beach. “Has he breakfasted yet?”

She shook her head. “I did offer, but he said he’d walk first. I thought he looked… a mite peaky.”

“Peaky?”

“Aye. As though he’d not slept well.”

Beever’s concern revived at those words, but he told himself that there was need to panic just yet. “Thank you for informing me, ma’am. I think, perhaps, that I should go in search of him, and the two of us will breakfast on our return.”

She nodded. “Aye, Captain. Hope the lad feels the better for his walk.”

_So do I_ , Beever thought as he headed out the door.

Another bad dream? He’d thought—or at least, hoped—that Dominic’s nightmares might have occurred less frequently over the last week or so. Granted, the boy was still damnably close-mouthed about what might be troubling him, as well as overly inclined to believe that he should deal with those troubles alone. Too self-reliant for his own good—but then, Dominic’s father had hinted as much...

“He’s a good boy,” Charles had told him as they lingered over their port, the night before Beever had taken Dominic on as a cadet. “I speak as his father, of course, so I’m not impartial by any means. But he’s bright and brave, and he’ll work hard for you.” 

“Promising qualities in a future officer,” Beever observed.

“He _can_ be stubborn,” Charles warned, “and a bit impulsive at times. And he’s perhaps more… independent than most schoolboys his age. I attribute that to the year I was presumed lost, and he had to be the man of the family.” His mouth crooked in a fond smile. “Emma tells me he took his responsibilities very seriously.”

The boy took _most_ things seriously, Beever reflected as he strode towards the beach. His studies, his relationships, his promises—like the one he’d made to avenge his parents. And now, it appeared, his demons as well.

Charles had been right to warn him about that independent streak. He quickened his pace as the sea’s rumble reached his ears, and he could smell the salt on the morning breeze. Five minutes more brought him to the beach—and the sight of his ward standing just at the water’s edge, gazing out at the waves, murky grey in the wan morning light.

Beever frowned. Something… was off, though he could not decide what. Perhaps it was the boy’s stance, the shoulders squared, the back ramrod-straight. He could not see Dominic’s expression, but there was nothing of ease or even pleasure in the way he stood. Rather, he reminded Beever of an officer facing enemy fire—or at least the prospect of it.

Then a wave struck the shore, its abundant spray catching the boy mid-chest, and Beever observed the slight flinch, followed by an instant stiffening of the spine, a deliberate raising of the head.

Beever had seen enough. Striding forward, he called, “Nick!”

The boy turned at once. “C-Captain Beever, sir.” His face was pale but composed, though every line of his body still radiated tension.

Beever reached his side, looked him over critically. “You’re soaked to the skin. Good God, boy, are you trying to catch your death? Or drown yourself?”

The moment the words were out, he wished them unsaid, remembering Dominic’s recent ordeal. The boy went even paler, but his mouth firmed and his chin tilted resolutely. “N-neither, sir. But I had to _know_.”

“Know what?”

“If I could face the open sea again. W-without breaking… like l-last time.” Dominic shivered, wrapping his arms about himself. His lips had acquired a bluish tinge, but his jaw was set—if only to keep his teeth from chattering. “Not much good, is it? Being a naval officer if you’re afraid of the sea.”

Pale, drenched, and utterly determined… and in that moment, Beever’s heart went out to him.

He wasn’t Charles. Or even Woodcock, damn him. But he knew what it was to be young and afraid, and to doubt your fitness for the life you’d chosen.

_I can do this._

Gentling his tone, he asked, “Another dream?”

The boy hesitated, then nodded, tight-lipped. 

“The rocks again?”

Dominic shook his head. “I was on the beach—with _Finn_.” He spat out the name like a curse. “He was dead. At least, I _thought_ he was, but then he grabbed me round the ankles and held me fast. And the tide was coming in…” He shivered again, and Beever suspected it was not from the cold. “I woke up then, but I couldn’t—go back to sleep after that.”

Nor wished to, Beever suspected. Small blame to him for that. “Why didn’t you rouse me, boy? You could have, you know.”

“I d-didn’t want to disturb you after our journey, sir. And because...” He lowered his head, flushing. “Because I didn’t want you to despise me.”

“ _Despise_ you?” Beever echoed, incredulous. “Why would I do so?”

“Because I proved a coward that day! I swore I’d tell them nothing, b-but I couldn’t keep my word.” The boy’s face was stark with the memory. “The sea just c-came at me, sir—wave after wave, and I _broke_. All I could think about was getting away from it! And when Finn and Nat came down…” He broke off, visibly struggling for composure.

“I believed— _wanted_ to believe—that they’d let me go, if I told them. They didn’t, of course.” His mouth twisted. “Stupid of me to think they would. Finn practically laughed in my face and told me I’d be meeting my parents soon, on the other side of the water. Then he went back up—and left me there to drown.”

Beever’s hands clenched into fists, but he did not trust himself to speak at that moment.

“The worst was knowing that I was going to die having failed them.” Dominic swallowed hard, his eyes suspiciously liquid. “I wasn’t there to protect my mother. Or fight beside my father. All I could do for my parents was avenge them—and I couldn’t even do _that_ right.”

Beever said gruffly, trying to conceal his own emotion, “You should never have tried to confront your parents’ killers alone.”

“No, sir.” Dominic’s gaze dropped to the ground again. “But I _felt_ alone.”

That admission, spoken so quietly, almost forlornly, struck home like a sword thrust. A stark reminder to Beever that, after the murders, he’d done little to help the boy feel _less_ alone. A reminder—and a reproach, even if Dominic hadn’t meant it as one.

Swallowing guilt, he put tentative hands on his ward’s shoulders. “Bear in mind that you are not alone _now_.”

A tiny nod, but Dominic did not look up. 

“And I do not despise you,” Beever resumed, after a moment. “Far from it, in fact. What you endured would have broken men of far more years and experience than you possess. Moreover,” he added, “if you _hadn’t_ finally told Finn where you’d hidden the watch, _I_ would never have discovered where you were.”

The boy looked up at that, his eyes widening as he absorbed this revelation. “Because he sent Nat to the church to retrieve it—”

“And I caught him there. I’m the one who shot him, Nick.” Ignoring the boy’s sharp intake of breath, Beever continued, “And before he died, he told me that Barty… had taken you.” _That Barty had_ drowned _you_. The horror of that moment had not quite faded, even now. “In the end, your decision may have saved your life.”

“ _Lucy_ saved my life, sir,” Dominic pointed out. 

“True,” Beever conceded. “But, at the very least, it made it possible for me to find you.” He tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulders. “You did nothing wrong, Nick. In such a desperate situation, your first duty would be to survive. And to escape, with—one hopes—intelligence of the enemy. You did both.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dominic’s response was barely a whisper, but some of the tension seemed to drain out of him. Along with some of that misplaced self-loathing, Beever hoped.

“Come, boy.” He guided his ward away from the water’s edge. “We should return to the inn. The landlady was concerned about you, by the way.”

“Was she? That was kind of her.”

“Though what she’ll say when she sees the state of you…”

Dominic glanced guiltily down at himself. “I suppose I _am_ rather wet.”

Beever shrugged out of his pea coat and draped it over Dominic’s shoulders. Given his greater height and breadth, the garment almost swallowed the boy up in its folds. “That should help.”

Dominic huddled gratefully within it. “Thank you, sir,” he said again. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

Beever put a hand on his shoulder as they started up the beach together. “I realize that this last month has been… difficult for you. I’d hoped this holiday would provide some welcome distraction.”

The boy’s breath hitched in a sigh. “So had I, sir.” He shivered again, drew the coat closer around him. “I’ve—loved the sea since I was a child, growing up in Greenwich. And now… I don’t know if I’ll ever feel the same about it again.”

“Mm.” Beever slung an arm across the boy’s shoulders, felt surprisingly gratified when Dominic relaxed beneath it. “What you feel at present is only to be expected. Indeed—I experienced something akin to the same fear when I was about your age.”

“ _You_ , sir?”

Beever suppressed the urge to smile at the astonishment in Dominic’s voice. “I was perhaps a year or two younger than you are now when we were hit by a storm—one of the worst I can remember. Thunder, lightning, high winds that practically tore our sails loose. Waves tossing our ship back and forth like a shuttlecock.” Now he did smile, albeit a trifle wryly. “I’d prided myself on having a cast-iron stomach, but I spent just as much time puking over the rail as some of my less fortunate shipmates.”

The boy made a commiserating sound. _Go on_ , his eyes seemed to say.

“Looking back, I think it may have been terror as much as _mal de mer_. I was convinced that we were all going to die. And the worst part was realizing that the sea—did not care whether we survived… or went down with all hands. Such is nature: a force beyond human reckoning or understanding.” Beever paused, recalling that time. “Never had I felt more insignificant in the worldly scheme of things. Like a single drop of water, lost in the torrent. It was—a frightening realization.”

“Did you ever think of leaving the service?”

“Of course, boy. But, in the end, I knew that I wanted no other life. That my heart was still with the sea, in spite of all.”

Dominic’s brow creased. “Is it possible to still love what you’ve come to fear?”

“Not only possible, but commonplace,” Beever assured him. “In my life, Nick, I have loved, hated, and feared the sea by turns. But I have always _respected_ it, whatever its moods and caprices. I think,” he added, “that once one accepts the sea on its own terms, it becomes… a little easier to confront its hazards. Give yourself some time—to adjust.”

“Yes, sir.”

The morning sun had grown a little stronger, and by its light Beever could see the faint bluish shadows under Dominic’s eyes. The boy looked as though he could do with a hot meal, and about a week of uninterrupted sleep. And while Beever could not guarantee the latter, he could do something about the former.

Surveying his ward from top to toe, he announced briskly, “A quick wash, I think. In hot water, if it can be had. And then, dry clothes and a hearty breakfast—if you’ve the appetite for it.”

A little color had stolen back into Dominic’s face. “I think, perhaps, I do, sir.”

****

Half an hour later, they sat down to breakfast together. The boy seemed calmer now, Beever observed—soothed, perhaps—and he tackled his food with more appetite than he’d shown last night. Beever likewise partook enthusiastically of the lavish meal set before them: eggs, fried ham, coffee, and light, flaky scones.

“Nearly as good as Bessie’s,” he remarked, helping himself to another.

Dominic’s expression brightened at Miss Dearlove’s name. Just before they’d left for Hornsea, Beever had offered her a permanent position at the Academy. Smiling with a radiance that transformed her plain face, she had accepted at once. And the boy had appeared delighted by the news as well.

“About Bessie, sir…” He paused, crumbling the remains of his scone. “I just wanted to thank you, for keeping her on. I know that she has her little ways. But I can’t remember life without her—she joined my parents’ household just after I was born.”

“I had concluded that your attachment to Miss Dearlove was of long standing,” Beever acknowledged. 

“It’s—a bit more than that, sir.” Dominic’s earnest gaze met his own. “Bessie’s always been more like family than just a servant. Four years ago, when we lost all our money and had to move to Yorkshire, she was determined to come with us, even though we couldn’t offer her any wages. And then last month…” He broke off to swallow hard, then continued with only a slight tremor in his voice, “She—she laid my mother out for burial. My father died in her arms. You can’t buy loyalty like that, can you, sir? All you can do is repay it in kind.”

Loyalty. The word struck an all too familiar chord with Beever, bringing to mind his own association with Jenkins. He was aware of his second-in-command’s foibles, knew that many found the old seaman’s affectations absurd. But he was also tough, brave, and loyal, and Beever had come to depend on that loyalty during their shared years at sea. He hadn’t hesitated for a moment to recruit Jenkins when he’d first launched his school, three years after the war had ended. Jenkins was as much a part of _his_ life as Bessie was of Dominic’s.

“So, even if it had nothing to do with me, I’m grateful that you’ve offered her a permanent place. After everything else…” the boy paused, flushing, then confessed in a low voice, “I couldn’t have borne to lose her too.”

Beever stared at him, nonplussed and oddly shaken. _I_ did _do it for you. And for her. So that you wouldn’t lose each other. Good God, boy, do you think I’m made of stone?_

It occurred to him that this was not a conversation he and Dominic could have had a month ago. Or if they had, would he have listened… or dismissed the boy’s plea out of hand as pure sentiment?

Unbidden, the memory of that difficult day rose in Beever’s mind. Looking up at the pale, tight-lipped boy on the landing, curtly informing him that he would be leaving Bulman Hall and not returning, ordering him to pack and move “at the double.”

For the first time, he realized how Dominic must have seen him in that moment: stern, aloof, harsh, and unfeeling. Uprooting him from his home without a word of explanation—on the very day he’d buried his beloved parents. Dismissing the staff who’d served his family for years. Showing neither kindness nor consideration for his own feelings in the matter. Nor understanding, for all that he would be leaving behind…

No wonder the boy had regarded him as an overbearing martinet. And no wonder he’d fought so hard to keep Miss Dearlove: one last remnant of the life that had been torn from him. By his parents’ killers—and now by his new guardian.

“I _felt_ alone,” Dominic had said on the beach. Something else that perhaps he might not have said a month ago.

_He shouldn’t have had to say it, then. I should have_ known _—and done something about it. Tried harder to comfort, perhaps, instead of merely to command._

Mr. Travis had observed his high-handedness towards his new ward, and—Beever suspected—thought a bit less of him for it. And while Beever had resented the solicitor’s words about discipline versus the human heart at the time, he’d come to appreciate them, albeit a tad grudgingly. Especially as his own heart was proving all too human where this boy was concerned.

_His opinion matters to me. I… care what he thinks._

But then, Beever reflected, his opinion appeared to carry some weight with Dominic as well. _“I didn’t want you to despise me.”_ A morning of revelations indeed.

He cleared his throat, chose his next words with care. “I took several factors into consideration when making my decision, Nick. The… affection between you and Miss Dearlove was among them.”

The smile Dominic offered was a shyer, more tentative one than those he tended to bestow on Bessie or that blasted Woodcock. But it held its own sweetness, and Beever felt warmed by it all the same. “I’m glad, sir,” the boy said simply.

Beever inclined his head. “I hope you will be as pleased by my proposed plan for the day.”

Dominic’s expression turned quizzical. “Sir?”

“I had thought that, in addition to exploring the town, we might consider an excursion to Burton Constable.” 

“Burton Constable?”

“A country estate, much of it dating back to Queen Elizabeth’s time,” Beever told him. “I visited once as a boy—the housekeeper was always willing to offer travelers a tour of the place. You might enjoy it: the Long Gallery and the grounds are particularly impressive.” He paused to let the information sink in. Hornsea held other attractions besides the beach, after all, and Beever had intended this holiday to be for pleasure, not penance. Moreover, Dominic might regain his love for the sea if he spent some time away from it.

A series of emotions flickered rapidly across the boy’s mobile face: comprehension, relief, even gratitude. “I think—that sounds like a fine idea, sir,” he said at last.

“Excellent.” Little by little, Beever thought, he and his ward were coming to understand each other. “I’ll see about hiring horses, after breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! More than slightly appalled at how long it's been since I updated, but real life intervened with a vengeance. Besides trying to deal with the outcome of the election, I had surgery and was in a car accident this past winter. I'm crossing my fingers that spring will go a little better. And that the next installment of this story won't take 6 months to write. I've no idea if anyone's even following it at this point, but if you are, then thank you for your patience.


End file.
